Not waving but drowning

George Bush went to church today. This is him waving dolefully before the service:


This is him waving dolefully after the service:


Cheer up, George, at least you didn’t burst into flames. Did Laura not promise there would be ice cream after?

Even I’m not interested in my thoughts about the Puerto Rico primary (update: literally as I was writing that, an email came in for Hillary herself, so I can relay her thoughts on the Puerto Rico primary: “Now there can be no doubt: the people have spoken and you have chosen your candidate.” Just in case you had any doubt), so instead let’s have some more London Review of Books personals, some of which this time are a little creepy. (More of my selected LRB personals can be found here.)

This time next week you’ll think replying to this advert was the best decision you’ve ever made. At the same time you’ll be regretting your choice of footwear. Why? Because dark soles aren’t allowed on my mother’s newly laid laminates. Don’t worry, I’ve already bought you slippers (size four) and pyjamas (size 10) and a brush for your beautiful long red hair (I’ve had ‘Susan’ engraved on the handle, that’s what I’d like to call you). Size 10 Susans with size four feet, please, reply to box no. 10/02 You can be any age but if you’re 42 with a birthday on September 6 it will be a distinct advantage. Otherwise we can just pretend. Box no. 10/02

The usual hyperbole infuses this ad with a whiff of playful narcissism and Falstaffian bathos. But scratch below the surface and you’ll soon find that I really am the greatest man ever to have lived. Truly great man, 37. Better than Elvis and Ghandi. You’ll never be a genuinely worthy partner, but try anyway by first replying to box no. 10/03 Include a full list of qualifications, a list of your aspirations, and a full frontal nude body shot. Box no. 10/03

At first glance you may consider me a true modernist in the von Webern sense, but – like him – deep down I’m very much a romantic. As my collection of taxidermied amphibians will testify. Man, 60. Box no. 10/06

This advert is my entry to the LRB’s young person essay writing contest. I won’t win it, however, because it is far too clever by half and also because I’m 62. Man, 62. Far too clever by half. Box no. 10/08

Think of every sexual partner you’ve ever had. I’m nothing like them. Unless you’ve ever slept with a German bulimic cellist called Elsa. Elsa: German bulimic cellist, (F, 37). Box no. 10/09

Fighter Ace, Nobel/Olympic legend, seeks slim lady tired of bullshit.

Mad Dog and Englishman, 24, interested in Wagner, Edwardianism, fortified wines, and debauchery, seeks older women for coy exchanges of Wildean put-downs, followed by forbidden candle-lit passions, leading to clandestine affair, epic betrayal, and eventual Götterdämmerung and redemption. Accountants and Paleontologists need not apply. Box no. 11/03

You’re Helen Mirren. I’m Will Self. One half of this century’s übercouple-to-be seeks tousled fems to 50 for weekends full of recondite wines, obscure blandishments, and winning references to abstruse 11th century sexual practices. No loons. Box no. 11/06